


Lost Time

by GeataRionnag



Series: The Turnings of Time Collection [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arithmancy (Harry Potter), F/M, Knockturn Alley, Study of Ancient Runes (Harry Potter), Time Turner (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:41:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22219480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeataRionnag/pseuds/GeataRionnag
Summary: Draco Malfoy and George Weasley, both experiencing their own kinds of regrets and emotional tumult, use their understanding of magical theory and their unique positions to create a new timeline that will ease what was lost and save what slips between your fingers like fine sand.
Relationships: Angelina Johnson/George Weasley, Arthur Weasley/Molly Weasley, Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Audrey Weasley/Percy Weasley, Fleur Delacour/Bill Weasley, Hannah Abbott/Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Series: The Turnings of Time Collection [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599457
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	1. A Birthday at the Burrow

The year was 2007. It had been almost ten years since the defeat of Lord Voldemort at the hands of the boy who lived, Harry Potter. 

Harry was happily married now to his best friend’s sister, Ginny, and had been working as an auror since the events of the second Wizarding War. He had just welcomed his second son, Albus, almost a year before. 

One thing that Ginny still hadn’t been able to tame out of him was his almost obscene generosity. He couldn’t help trying to share his good fortune and wealth with everyone he came across. He had bought his wife a stunningly beautiful house with as many expensive furnishings as he could. Each birthday of his 3 and a half year old son James had been celebrated in a most ostentatious style. And, of course, his wife was showered with gifts regularly simply for her existence. Harry was eager to continue the tradition of gifts with his second son, whose birthday would be in two days. 

It was the first of March, (Ron’s birthday— He mustn’t forget that!) and winter still had not released its grip on the land. His breath rose in great plumes like peacock feathers and he shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his auror robes, silently and wandlessly reinforcing the warming charm he had cast on his gloves. 

“Can never get out of this blasted cold,” he muttered to himself, sniffing to keep his nose from completely running over. 

The late afternoon sun glinted on the cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley, reflecting off of the odd puddles from last night’s rain storm. Couldn’t it ever just be normal snow, he wondered? 

Trying to ignore the cold, Harry continued walking briskly towards one particular end of the alley. He kept his focus on his black dragonhide boots, knowing that the jarring colors of the building he was headed towards would be plenty recognizable even in his peripheral vision.

There it was. Not two minutes later, he stood before a garish orange building that towered above the streets. Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes. 

As he walked through the entrance, a new obnoxious bell rang, this one sounding like a goose had just fallen into a jar of jam. The walls were stuffed with joke materials and candies, but Harry knew that in the back of the store there sat the laboratory, where new inventions were being made— and special requests were crafted. 

He wandered about for a moment, knowing that George would emerge from the back room at any moment. His eyes lingered on the nosebleed nougats— how George still stocked them after all the trouble they had gotten in the ginger's seventh year at Hogwarts, he would never know. 

Some new additions lined the walls, which would not be so astonishing if Harry had not been to the shop for months, but he visited weekly and knew that new products were the norm. George’s imagination could never be quelled, it was true. He spotted some new pasties and a five pound bag of gummy newt’s eyes. (Who in the world would ever be crazy enough to buy that many?)

As he was pondering the existence of the newt’s eyes, George came barreling out of the back, smoke— or possibly steam, or maybe chemical gases— blooming out of the back room behind him like some kind of awesome cloak.

“Ah, Harrikins, you’re just in time!” The tall red headed man exclaimed. “Come, come, you have to see what I’ve got for you!”

“Anything particularly prankish for Ron?”

“The best. A broom blanket with a disillusionment charm worked into it. Call it the new invisibility cloak and I’ll sell scores! I figure you can right chop his heart out of his throat with it!” 

“Sounds perfect. What about for Albus?”

“You’ll see,” George said, laughing as he pushed Harry through the steaming doorway.

Harry coughed almost at once at the stinging masses of gray gas.

“Please tell me this is non-toxic,” Harry wheezed, his eyes tearing up from irritation.

“Hm, I’m not really sure. I probably should’ve cast an impermeable spell on the cauldron on the workbench, shouldn’t I?” George mused, seemingly unphased by the potion smoke swirling around him.

“Yes, that would’ve been a capital idea,” Harry muttered, wiping his eyes. “Snape would’ve been proud of you, what with standing over a cauldron like that mess for hours on end.”

“Hmm.” George was lost in melancholic thought. He was well aware of how Harry’s perception of Snape had changed during that final battle for the better, but did not necessarily agree with Harry’s different opinions. However, George could appreciate the bravery that Snape showed in the end. Much like his own brother…

He picked up a cloth cube and stared at it. “Harry, do you ever think… Do you ever wish you could change it all?”

“Huh?” Harry said, rather startled by the question. “Change what all?”

“I just mean… so many people died, Harry. What if you could change it? That’s all I’m asking.”

“It’d be nice, sure, but think of all the other things that might change,” Harry said. “You may not have had nephews who adore you if everything went the way we always wanted, after all. I think that through darkness comes light.”

“Even if there’s forever a bit of that light that’s lost?” George sighed. “I’m sorry, that was a stupid question.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d better show you Albus’s present so that we aren’t late for dinner at the Burrow.”

“Sounds good,” Harry said, though there was not much enthusiasm in his voice. 

The cloth cube that George had picked up glistened as if with an internal light. It shimmered all sorts of different colors, different it seemed on each side. “It’s got protection charms and soothing spells worked into it. The form makes sure it can easily be transfigured into some other shape. I’ve worked some very complex spells into the fabric that ensures the enchantments remain stable no matter the form, and I think I could’ve maybe discovered a new type of textile in the process.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?” 

“Of course,” George grinned halfheartedly.

It took 20 minutes, but with a few spells the back room was cleared of fumes, each of the current projects were put into stasis, and the two brothers-in-law were able to close the shop just in time to apparate to Ron’s birthday party with gifts wrapped in animated wrapping paper.

They popped into the Burrow’s living room— which, thanks to some spell stabilizing rune work Harry had purchased, was slightly larger. It did, in fact, grow each year, but hardly enough to be noticed in a day. Molly had her suspicions, but she was probably the only one of the family who hadn't been told outright. 

Arthur levitated several full dishes onto the table before greeting them gently. "Oh, hello George, hello Harry."

“George, Harry! Sit down, the both of you,” Molly said with a genial smile as she sat a pot of steaming tomato soup down on the table. They smiled at the couple in return and sat down at the positively massive dining room table (which had of course been transfigured to be much larger than it had been once. It had to be, to support sixteen children, children-in-law, and grandchildren (because of course Teddy counted as a grandchild— you may fight Molly Weasley on that point, but I don’t plan to)). 

George wingardiumed the gifts to the center of one segment of the table where a heap of other colorfully wrapped boxes and items sat. 

The green flames of the floo flared up and Ginny came through holding a sleeping Albus and the hand of a bouncing James with Teddy stepping through close behind. Harry arose to take Albus from her and greet her with a kiss.

Ginny handed over her younger son gently and pecked her husband back. “You couldn’t have stopped at home before coming over?”

“Got tied up in the back room at the Wizard Wheezes. If I was any later your mother would’ve skinned me alive. Lovingly, of course,” Harry said quietly, smiling. 

“Mhm,” Ginny said, releasing James into the living room. “You were the first ones here.”

“Sue me.”

“I might just.” She took her place at the table next to her husband. 

"Wotcher, Harry," the nine year old Teddy said, hugging his godfather.

"Oi, you just saw me this morning, no need to squeeze so tight," Harry wheezed from his godson's embrace, laughing. "Working on your body structure transformations some more, eh?" 

Teddy laughed and went to sit down, his mischievous, ever changing eyes gleaming with mischief.

The floo flashed again with the light of Ron and Hermione and their one-year-old daughter, Rose.

“Good evening, Molly, Ginny, Harry,” Hermione said politely, lifting her daughter up higher on one hip. Her bushy hair was pulled back in a knot that passed as professional in the DMLE where she worked as an arbiter. 

“Hallo, everyone,” said Ron, plopping down in a seat. “Got me a little something, have you?” He inquired, reaching towards the pile of presents. Hermione whacked his hand. 

“Save it until after dinner, Ron.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, jerking his hand back.

Charlie clattered down the twisting stairs in the corner. “Oi, what’s all the racket?” He called blearily, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

"You call that a racket? And I thought you worked with dragons," Ron said, standing to meet his elder brother.

"A baby hungarian horntail is quieter than you lot," Charlie groused, hugging Ron.

"Good to see you," Ron said, sitting back down. "Hey mum, when are we expecting Bill and Percy?" 

"Soon enough, I'm sure," Hermione answered her husband.

"They'll be here within the next fifteen minutes, don't you worry." 

"Awe we gonna see Victwawe?" James piped up from by a potted plant that was belching multicolored bubbles. 

"Of course we are, dear," Molly replied, sending a bolt of magic towards a bowl of custard. 

The Floo burst up again, allowing Bill, Fleur, Victoire, and Dominique to step into the living room. The green light reflected softly on the blonde tresses of the girls and their mother.

"Oh, Bill, you're here. Good." Molly let the platter of ham to descend carefully onto the table as she went over to greet her eldest son. "Percy should be here soon, and then we can begin to eat."

"Perfect Percy strikes again, disciplining my stomach," Ron laughed. 

A double pop split the air in the living room and Percy appeared with a young woman beside him. 

"Oy, Percy, who's the girl?" Ron asked, side leaning better than Captain Kirk.

He earned a smack on the shoulder from Hermione.

"Good afternoon to you too, Ron," Percy said, pulling a seat out for the young lady. "Mother, this is Audrey," he said, purposely ignoring his youngest brother now. 

"Well good for you Perce, it's certainly taken long enough," Ron snickered. 

"And you said your family wasn't charming," Audrey eyes crinkled mirthfully when she spoke to Percy, who was seating himself carefully. 

"Why thank you, Lady Audrey," Ron said, bowing his head in a grandiose manner, only to jerk it up when a swift kick to the shin came from a direction specifically close to Percy's chair. A glare followed closely from behind Percy's annoying horn-rimmed glasses.

"Ahem," Molly cleared her throat. "If everyone is here, we can perhaps begin dinner?"

"Sounds good to me, Mum," George piped up. He had been staring at the empty spot of wooden table in front of him for the last while. 

"Well then, if everyone would sit down," Molly called to the few still standing family members, transfiguring an extra chair for herself. 

The family of redheads ordered themselves relatively quickly. Food and Molly's commanding voice had that effect on them. 

Many succulent dishes were served in both magic and mundane manners across the table onto the plates that had appeared on the wooden planks. 

"To Ron," said Arthur from the head of the table. 

"To Ron," came the voices of the adult Weasley clan.

The young ones squirmed in their chairs and in their parents laps. "Sit still, James," Ginny hissed to her elder son.

Victoire was perhaps the only child old enough to understand the need to sit still save Teddy. Fleur was quite proud of her older daughter.

The feast was magical as it always was. It may not have been as grand as the Hogwarts welcoming feast, but its hominess more than made up for it. Of course, knowing that food was made with love always made it taste and smell ten times better.

Ron wolfed down his first servings of food as quickly as he could, as if he hadn't even gotten a snack break that afternoon. (He had. His stomach just got more bottomless as he had matured. Twenty seven year old Ron had only slightly better impulse control than seventeen years old Ron had in more ways than one.)

Teddy tried to help James with his food but it wasn't going very well. Bill and Fluer's younger daughter must have pushed half her food onto the floor, with Victoire exclaiming that that wasn't how eating food worked. 

Ginny and Hermione were both trying to feed Albus and Rose, with varying degrees of success. At some point they switched to see if one may have better luck than the other. They didn't. 

Through the difficulty, the love parents have for their children was clearly evident, and laughter rang round the oddly shaped table.

It must've taken an hour at least for the whole family to finish eating. (Audrey exclaimed several times on the "exceeding quality" of the food. If she and Percy ever had children, those children would be either very bored or very boring, Ron whispered to Hermione later that evening.)

Finally, however, they were ready for Ron to open his presents. He still loved them, even with the jumpers that he got with every heap of gifts. He was still rather a child at heart. 

“Alright, alright, you can open your presents now,” Hermione said after Ron complained to her for the fifth time quietly. 

“Thank you love,” he said. 

“Mine first,” Bill said as he floated a package over to his younger brother. It was sparkly in red and yellow, his old house colors. It had small galleons illustrated over it. Ron eagerly ripped into it to reveal… a large, dusty tome. 

“Investing for Dummies?” He said, clearly unenthused.

“...It was on sale at work,” Bill admitted before floating another similarly wrapped gift to Ron. 

This one was spectacular: a magnificent wooden board game about treasure traps and such. It had three levels: desert, jungle, and cloud.

“Cool,” Ron said. “We’re playing this after dinner,” he announced. There was no question about it. He pushed it to the side to allow Hermione to look at it.    
“Ooh, strategy,” she murmured. “I think Bill’s present might be the best.”

"I guess I can forgive him for the first one, then," Ron said as he reached for a parcel. 

The next gift was George’s. It was a box full of soft balls that seemed to glow with some sort of liquid in side. “When you get dirty on the job, just crack this on your uniform and it will clean it for you.”

“Thank goodness I don’t have to bother with the washing machine anymore,” Ron breathed dramatically. 

“Like you have to in the first place,” Hermione said. She had insisted on the muggle convenience because sometimes she just didn’t want to focus on cleaning clothing with magic. It was kept running with a magical electric pump and the circuitry was protected with magic runes she herself had inscribed there with George’s help.

George had been invaluable in more ways than one. With the help of the economic success of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes, the Weasley family had finally become financially stable. George himself ran a grief counseling group which was originally for those who had lost loved ones in the two Wizarding Wars. The group had since expanded to all sorts of trauma, and a bowl of Mental Health Sweets was always available in each and every meeting. Beyond this, as a way of escaping his grief, George spent the majority of his time inventing. Whether he invented for the shop or for his family or for himself, he was always creating and changing the rules of how even basic things worked. He was a veritable genius. But he was rather alone. 

He had helped so many others to move on, yet he could not move on from his own grief. Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

Deep inside that silly, stupid hope that he could fix everything with his creations one day stuck to him like glue, burrowed its way into him like a rose thorn.

So far, not that much luck. Until that week. This week he had found something in an old book. Everyone knew Knockturn Alley was off limits as a child, but the darker offshoot of Diagon Alley held many treasures one could not find elsewhere. George sometimes would stroll through the alley looking for anything that piqued his curiosity, and the previous Sunday, something had. It was a book with all sorts of clock emblems emblazoned upon the cover. They would move if the light shone on them in just the right way. The inside was full of ancient runes and information on spell crafting and such, even on alchemy. But what was most interesting was that each piece of the book related, George had realized, to the mystery of time.

Among the wizarding world, Time was one of five great Mysteries that was studied in the Department of Mysteries, below the British wizarding ministry. There, clocks and time turners and time magic were studied and picked apart and created. Time there was something that manipulated and yet was to be manipulated.

However, the greater public had little exposure to time magic. At most, certain exemplary students may have had access to a time turner in their days at Hogwarts, but they were all warned to keep the whole thing very hush-hush. Near the end of the war, all the time turners save two had been destroyed. However, as happened frequently with the darker offshoots of bureaucracy such as the Unspeakables, time magic was once again studied.

George felt that he was, however, on unexplored terrain. He wasn’t sure where his studies would bring him, but he knew one thing. He had a plan that would utterly change everything. It all relied upon the new information he had gleaned and on his trust in his own blazing, inventing spirit. 

George shook himself back to attention, watching as the rest of the presents filed through Ron’s eager grasp. He had already gotten to the jumper. Already? Goodness how time flew. He resisted the urge to laugh at his own inside joke. Harry’s gift of the disappearing broom blanket with its time-released disillusionment charm was up next. Ron draped it over his arm and carressed it. 

“...Really nice, Harry. Where’d you get it?”

“Ah, that’s a trade secret Ron. You know what they say about Magicians.”

“Harry, they say a lot of things about magicians, and if you think about it, we’re literally all magicians.”

“I never reveal my trade secrets,” Harry said, bursting at the seams with laughter. 

“We’re in the same trade! Just tell me!”

“No-ho-ho! Keep opening your presents!”

Ron glared at Harry, who was running his hand through his messy black hair as he tried to calm his laughter. 

Maybe there were good things to how his life was  _ now, _ but the pain of losing his closest friend, his twin, was too much sometimes. He’d tried focussing on the good, focussing on the new, focusing on the wildest of magical failures. He’d helped a lot of people in a lot of different ways, but what good was that if he couldn’t help himself? Maybe someday he’d know. Or maybe someday he’d change things.

That was, after all, what he really wanted to do. Wasn’t it? 

George didn’t spend much time talking during the rest of the party. The most times he was fully engaged was when he was playing with various nieces and nephews. That was his favorite part. It surprised him a bit, he’d mostly tormented Ron and Ginny when they were younger. Never mind the part where he and Fred had scarred Ron for life when it came to spiders. But here with these young children he felt the most at peace as he ever did. 

James came over and sat on his lap while Ron, Hermione, Harry, Ginny, Bill, and Audrey all played the new board game in a ridiculously competitive fashion. It made George smile to know that despite all the time and changes the family had endured, they still remained the same at heart. 


	2. The Two Taverns

It took hours for the festivities to wrap up, it seemed. Ron was happy enough for that to be the case, sure, but the cranky grandchildren were less than enthused. George was more than glad to be able to melt into his bed in the flat above Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes. Sleep, however, like many nights, wouldn’t come.

“Merlin, why me?” George grumbled, rolling out of bed after an hour and a half of tossing and turning and running over precious ideas in his head. “Blimey. I need a drink,” he groaned, tossing a robe on over his boxer shorts.

The sleek black sleeves back lit just enough to be less than imposing. He never had managed to make his robes billow like old Slimy Snape. Old git. George didn’t care where the old potions professor’s loyalties had lain, he was a creepy, prejudiced bat of a wizard. Snake.

George stumbled through the hallways of his home and workplace, not even bothering to light a lumos until he hit his shin on a marble pillar he had collected at some point. “Blasted thing—” he spluttered, calling a wandless ball of light to his fingertips.

He found the door easily enough after that. The light helped shock his mind back to working order, so all the random joke traps he had installed throughout certain sections of the store (all clearly labeled in neon orange, a courtesy to the weak at heart that Harry and Ginny had both insisted on) were no trouble at all.

He opened the door and a large gust of icy wind blew past him. “Heh. Forgot my warming charm.” He cast one. It was wildly inadequate. “Warming charms.” He cast another. “There. Better.”

He stepped out onto the cobblestone street and began the long stroll down to the Leaky Cauldron. “Someone should really put a tavern in closer to the end of the street,” he muttered.

The wet cobblestones shone in the moonlight. George was glad that his leather boots had an impervious spell on them, as his careless steps splashed water every which way.

His legs echoed with fatigue and his lungs felt like they had frosted over by the time he approached Gringotts and, by extension, the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron.

“Finally. Couldn’t think to bloody apparate, could I?” he muttered crossly as he crossed the threshold into the warmth of the wizarding tavern. He shook himself a bit as he walked further into the establishment. His sleep-addled brain had frozen over only to be scrambled further by alcohol. He pitied it sometimes.

“Firewhiskey," he ordered, "Make it hot.” George slapped a Gringotts credit plate on the bar in front of the bartender.

Gone were the days of good old Tom— he’d retired happily to a cottage in Godric’s Hollow, where his grandchildren visited most days. In his place, Hannah Longbottom nee Abbot ran the watering hole.

“George, you look awful,” a tired voice came from somewhere to the right as Hannah mixed up George’s firewhiskey. He looked over to see who had addressed him only to see Angelina Johnson looking back at him with her bright honey brown eyes.

“Only to make you shine brighter.” George smiled weakly as he picked up the Firewhiskey.

“It’s been awhile.”

“It has.” He took a sip of the Firewhiskey. It burned his mouth and felt like fireworks going down his throat. Better than wallowing in bed.

“Anything new?” Angelina shifted to face her old boyfriend better.

“When isn’t there?” George scoffed. “Sorry. Bad night.” He looked up at her. “Doesn’t look like you’ve had much better,” he observed quietly.

“Can’t say I have,” Angelina sighed, picking up her own bottle of butterbeer.

“Care to spill?”

“Do you?”

“I asked first,” George snarked back, smiling. It felt good to feel something again.

“...Fair,” Angelina decided after a moment. “But. You owe me another butterbeer.”

“Fair’s fair. My Gringotts vault is at your service.”

Angelina took a breath and another drink of butterbeer. “It hasn’t been easy, since we split up.” Her voice cracked a bit.

“I prefer to say drifted. Makes it more open ended,” George said somberly. With work and all the trauma that came after the war, he and Angelina had, indeed, drifted farther apart. After Fred's death, they had both needed time to grieve. They’d gotten back together again for a couple years, back in 2002 and 2003, but they’d drifted apart once again.

“Let me have this one, George,” she huffed, taking another drink of butterbeer.

George shrugged and gulped some more of his own beverage.

She sighed painfully before continuing. “I just broke up. Again.”

“Same story? Guy at the ministry, looking for commitment, and you just can’t settle down even when you try?” George asked gently. They’d had conversations like this before. Most of them were too obscured by alcohol to make much sense, but that didn’t matter.

Angelina pursed her lips and furrowed her eyebrows. “Yes,” she choked out. Hot tears began to trickle down her cheeks.

George pulled his stool closer to hers and she burrowed her head on his shoulder. “Just like always,” she muttered into his robe.

He hugged her, and they sat at the bar, wallowing in sad stories and alcohol, for many hours. They must have passed out at some point. A designated apparater must’ve delivered them safely to a room above the tavern, because George awoke in a whitewashed, plaster ceilinged room with a view of the sleepy London street below. This had happened before plenty. His head always pounded with the starkness of the light and the brightness of the overcast morning, but he was just glad to have gotten some sleep.

He stretched and cracked his back before heading downstairs to pay for last night and to head on home.

“Morning, George," Hannah greeted him cheerily.

"Your drinks and board have already been paid, no worries.”

“May I have the receipt?” George's voice was scratchy and his mouth dry.

Hannah looked at him oddly for a moment. “She already took it,” she explained.

“She who?” George said flatly, bewildered. “Don’t tell me Angelina paid for it. I owed her a butterbeer.”

“Got it in one,” Hannah said, her face rather concerned. “You’ll have to take that up with her, I’m afraid. Can’t be double charging you, can I?”

“I suppose not,” George admitted. “Though it would make me feel better.”

“Sorry, mate,” Hannah said.

George left the Leaky Cauldron and entered Diagon Alley by tapping a series of bricks with his wand, just like always. As soon as he was on the other side, a crack split the air as he disapparated to his home to open up shop.

As soon as he found himself back amidst familiar surroundings, he cast a Tempus charm to find that it was 7:53.

“Blimey,” George blustered. He cast freshening charms all over himself and his clothes. His mouth felt minty fresh, his robes were flattened and pressed, and he smelled like vanilla and cinnamon. He was ready to face the day.

No, he wasn’t.

But he could try, and that was the best he could promise.

He took stock of himself-- the magical wave of cleanliness opposing the disheveled nature of an untreated hangover, the facade of an accomplished inventor and businessman opposing the grief stricken man he was at his core.

He could go for a good anti-hangover potion right about then, he decided.

He shuffled to the back room, massaging his temples as he walked. A bookshelf full of various potions-- some made by him, some bought from various sources-- lined the stone wall just inside the door. Glass bottles in an array of colors, shapes, and sizes were placed in a haphazard line, making for an appealing sight. Some potions were stored in vessels more similar to mason jars than anything else due to the strength of their contents. Many spells had been cast over them to ensure the preservation of their strength and effects.

George skimmed over the shelf as one may look through a library, searching for his own special variation of Hangover Hamperer. It was in a green swan-necked glass bottle with a plain cork in the top. He found it within several seconds and took it gingerly from the shelf to place on the countertop below. There he measured out a portion of the thick blue potion for himself. He downed a dose and then stoppered the bottle again and replaced it on the shelf.

His mind turned to the events of the night before as the echoes of the headache faded.

Crap, he thought. How do I pay back Angelina?

The bell rang. Business came early. It was a good business, but it could be taxing. His stomach was empty, but he swept into the front of the store.

"Welcome to Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes; is there anything I can help you find?"

That was how the morning went. Bouncing back and forth between the back room and the shop floor. Goodness, I need a line of food or something, he thought at several points when his stomach growled in complaint at the smells of his experiments.

He frustratedly stirred his cauldron a bit harder. The pale pink substance bubbled threateningly. “Blast it,” he muttered. That was one batch he’d have to scrap. “Evanesco.”

He sighed and grabbed some new ingredients, his hands moving automatically through his jumbled stores in well-practiced motions. His back room was a mess of unlabeled plant-stuffs and potions that few could navigate without a keen memory.

He turned to the now clean cauldron and began to dazedly make another batch of whatever he had been making before he had ruined it. Out came the potions knife and cutting board once again.

No matter how much he threw himself into his work, his idea from the day before wouldn't let him go. He couldn't stop thinking about time to the point that he lost track of it all together.

At last he cast a Tempus charm, and, seeing that it was roughly noon, he prepared to close for the hour. He was all too glad to put up his 'Out for Lunch' sign in the front window.

He was used to going to the book nook for coffee and lunch, but somehow the White Wyvern sounded better.

So, George Weasley made his way down towards Knockturn Alley. He navigated deftly between the crooked stairways and fractured segments of the dark cobblestone road. At last he found the stairway he'd been looking for. It twisted and creaked as it scaled up the side of the old, weathered brick building. At the top of the landing, a sign swung in the random, enchanted breeze that swept through the alleyway. Upon the wooden sign was a white dragon-like figure that advertised the name of the place.

This was one of the very few pubs in all of Knockturn Alley, certainly possessing the best, most savory food available there. And that was saying something. The only establishment that surpassed the White Wyvern was an upscale gourmet restaurant owned and operated by cousins of the Black and Malfoy families, the Sables of France.

George stepped carefully into the dark room, deftly avoiding the creaky floorboards in favor of the more solid ones. It was crowded with all sorts of wizards and other odd creatures. Certain tables always seemed to be reserved for those more prone to shady dealings. The wizards that sat there tended to wear dark hoods with their robes, hiding their faces from any prying eyes.

On his part, George preferred to hide away in a quiet corner whenever he visited this place. His head was stuck in the clouds thinking about time and clocks and things that normal wizards probably didn’t think about, stuck in their own little worlds constructed of pettiness and status.

My, he’d gotten cynical, hadn’t he? Grief did that, he assumed.

He strode to the bar which stood along the back wall. A short fellow tended it there, most likely of the descent of some magical creature. Several glasses floated about him, enchanted cloths cleaning each lazily.

“Hallo, mate,” George greeted him amicably. He got a grunt of acknowledgement in return.

“If yer here tah order, then order,” the fellow said gruffly. The glasses were set down with a clatter and new ones arose.

“Platter number five, please,” he returned, not even looking at the menu. It was almost scary that George had frequented this establishment enough to the point of finding a favorite dish and memorizing it. Another grunt and the bartender got to work, leaving the glasses in his place.

As he waited, absently gazing at the floating cups and the slow, meticulous cloths before him, George turned over the problem of time turners in his mind. Who truly understood them, he wondered? How did they work? How were they constructed? How could they be put together from what little understanding of them remained in the wizarding world? And how could he use a time turner to create a completely different timeline?

He was startled out of his thoughts with the sound of a rough wooden platter being shoved towards him across an equally rough wooden bar with magic. “Ah, thank you,” George said softly, more out of habit than genuine interest, picking up the platter.

He made his way through the hubbub, speculating on the mystery of time. He knew that there had been study of this mystery deep beneath the Ministry, and he found it hard to believe it would have been shut down.

His customary corner was tucked into an inlet of wizardspace, shrouded in shadows cast by the floating candles that lit the pub. Booths wrapped around the enchanted walls, and tables sat evenly before them.

George let his platter down and slid onto the uncomfortable bench absently, not noticing the presence of another.

The man who sat at the next table over might have glowed white if the place had been any darker. As it was, his gaunt, ghostly features rested in a frazzled, distracted expression. His gray eyes scanned his platter emptily, not paying any heed to George. Both his milk white hands rested limply on the table before him, barely maintaining a grip on the silverware. His straight, dull, platinum blond hair hung limply in his face, a five o’clock shadow darkening his pixie-like chin and jawline. Deep bags cast his eyes in shadow, his fine eyebrows pinched in a quiet, worried bend.

He blinked suddenly, and his hands stirred to life. He glanced nervously about, very nearly jumping out of his seat when he saw George next to him.

“Blimey!” He breathed in a refined voice dulled and cracking by lack of sleep, wincing at his lack of awareness.

“Gallstones, didn’t see you there,” George gasped, stabbing a piece of chicken harder than he had intended in surprise.

“George Weasley?” The stranger said, startled.

“Yes. Surprised you’d know me, though,” George mused, blinking at the spectre of a man who sat by him.

“You were two years ahead of me at Hogwarts,” the stranger said quietly. “And I’ve been watching your business with interest. Been thinking of investing.”

“Sounds excellent,” George said quietly, cocking his head. “But who are you?”

The stranger let out a low, wry, laugh. “Call me Mister White. Consider me… one who has fallen from grace.”

“Mister White?” George said, curious. “You look familiar, but I don’t remember a Mister White.”

“Let’s just say I’ve been out of the limelight for awhile and would prefer to preserve my anonymity.” There was scarcely a pause. Businessmen seemed to have a sense for other businessmen being nearby, and it cut through much of the unnecessary words other people may engage in.

“Understandable,” George said. “Would you care to discuss investment over lunch?”

“Quite,” Mr. White said.

The itch of mystery dug obstinately into the back of George’s mind as they discussed money and products. Who was this odd man? He clearly had the resources to make a significant investment of the joke shop, despite his somewhat ill-kempt appearance.

“You’ve gotten to a good place in this life,” Mr. White commented as the two men scraped their wooden platters clean.

“I’ve certainly risen beyond what my mother expected of me with my OWL scores,” George commented humorously.

“Good test scores and a job in the ministry is hardly the most exciting path in life, though,” Mr. White said quietly in a melodic, thoughtful voice.

“True,” George muttered his assent quietly.

“I should know. I work a desk job in a department that could otherwise be very interesting,” Mr. White said. His eyes blinked slowly as he pushed his fork back and forth across the platter.

“Fascinating,” George yawned, a food-induced stupor clouding his mind. He cast a casual Tempus charm. “Ah, Mister White, I must apologize, but I really should be getting back to tending shop,” he said, straightening up.

“Quite understandable, Mister Weasley,” Mr. White said, standing. “Would you be available two evenings from now to continue our discussion?”

George stood. “Yes, that should work fine,” he said, extending his hand for a shake.

“Excellent. I’ll send an owl your way with a location,” Mr. White said, shaking George’s hand. “To the spirit of ingenuity, Mister Weasley.”

“To the spirit of ingenuity, Mister White,” George agreed, collecting his platter and silverware.

They both returned their dishes to the bar as a courtesy-- The White Wyvern, despite its popularity, still didn’t make much money in their consumables front. All their profits were channeled directly to an underground market, much the same as with the other halfway respectable establishments around Knockturn Alley. This profit funneling left much to be desired with the wait staff, but then again, rich and famous wizards weren’t typically among the clientele of such a place.

George left Mister White ordering a drink to go. He stepped through the weather-beaten door onto the landing and apparated home. This White character could prove to be most advantageous to Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes, and if George had been reading the signs right, Mr. White may be of most help with his newest private project--the turnings of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to a couple friends of mine for helping me edit this week.  
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter and will stick around for more.   
> Tap the Kudos button if you enjoyed, it only takes a little bit to show that this kind of stuff should keep coming! Comments don't hurt either-- if you have any thought, regardless of how small, put it down below. It's my bread and butter. I don't care if it's something as small as "Aaaah" or "*incessant screaming*" because I've left those comments too and it's exciting to see someone interacting with our work.  
> Next Saturday we get a more Draco-centric chapter. See you then.


	3. Mister White

Mister White. What had he been thinking? As if he could associate himself any closer to the beast that was his father! Draco Malfoy had spent years trying to escape the shadow of his father and the insidious mark on that monster's arm. On his own arm. Ultimately, familial love had been for naught, and serving some stuck-up dark lord had been more important than the trust, love, and fealty of a son and wife. 

A lord of darkness, of destruction, of hatred. Useless shadow. What good is an exorbitant inheritance if it all comes from evil doings? Investments in less than savory places, blackmail money, bounties on certain political figures. The dark arts market-- that stigmatized cesspool. 

The dark arts were nothing without a reputation. They were perfectly useful. But then you had characters like Grindelwald and Voldemort destroying any legality amidst the wizarding world. 

Draco was a Malfoy. That name had bad things behind it, but it also had a culture and a history and an understanding of such delicate politics and practices that he could not refute the name. His father may be in Azkaban now, his mother may be recovered from the dark deeds of her husband, but still, that awful reputation remained.

Draco had withdrawn from wizarding society after his marriage to Astoria Greengrass. His isolation from the higher-ups had deepened with the birth of his son Scorpius a year before. He was ready for a fresh start in society that matched the change in his family.

His son would grow up to be a respectable man; Draco would ensure that. But he would also grow up learning about history-- the flaws and the successes of history, the history of the family, an understanding of every nuance. All from a point of view that was far less-- how could he say it… bigoted than the one he grew up with.

Scorpius, his prize, would understand as much magic as Draco could possibly impart to him. He would be accepting rather than tainted with the lies of a dirty society. 

Draco understood the importance of history above all else. He understood the importance of tradition. 

But he also understood the importance of equality in skill. He had seen first-hand multiple times that muggleborns and half-bloods had equal, if not greater, skill than those he had been surrounded with as a child in pureblood society. The great tragedy, however, was that those muggleborns chose to spurn a gloriously rich culture in favor of being comfortable. 

Draco wasn’t above change. He himself had changed plenty. But he believed that both sides should change when it came to a compromise. To work together implied the equal exertion of effort on both sides. 

If he had his way, he would be teaching a wizarding culture course at Hogwarts. Unfortunately, the school board and Headmistress Minerva McGonagall had yet to arrive at an agreement on how that course would even function, much less who would teach it. So, he was stuck at a job that he had gotten based on family and reputation.

After the second wizarding war, the Malfoy family reputation had been damaged somewhat, but the human resources that his father Lucius had managed to amass over the years remained-- surprisingly-- somewhat intact. Therefore, upon his return to Hogwarts to repeat his final year, he had received an offer to work in the department of mysteries. How that had happened, Draco wasn’t sure, and he didn’t know if he wanted to find out or not. 

Nevertheless, it was 2007, and after graduating from Hogwarts in the early summer of 1999, he had started his job with the Ministry of Magic. 

It certainly wasn’t as exciting as he had hoped, being stuck behind a desk all day filing papers and using specific magic spells to clean and reset clocks. But, he had been informed, it was important work. 

The only problem was that his position had hardly changed in his eight years of part-time work. The remainder of his time had been spent slaving over an investment empire that desperately needed maintenance and growth. As a Malfoy, money was hardly a problem, but his unique understanding of certain aspects of magic had scarcely been used at all.

After the Battle for Hogwarts, almost all the time turners in the British wizarding world had been destroyed. Naturally, the Ministry still retained certain corrupt elements that even a good war and staff overturn couldn’t help, and the Department of Mysteries had committed certain human resources towards the creation of new and improved time turners.

Due to old restrictions on how time turners worked, each time turner could only turn back time for six hours each day. Naturally, with certain power-hungry and ambitious new recruits and some embittered old staples in the Department of Mysteries, new time-turners were being fashioned without this crucial limitation. 

However, the problem was that almost every single witch and wizard assigned to the project was incompetent at best and a perfect nincompoop at worst. Thus, the persona of Mister White had been reborn.

Draco had not at all been happy about that name popping into his head, but it had, and it had stuck. Mister White had been the nickname that the “great” Lord Voldemort had for Lucius back at the height of the Wizarding Wars. And now it was Draco’s to fashion into a new identity.

However many bad memories stuck with the name, he couldn’t seem to escape it. Every time he entered a situation where he needed his anonymity preserved, he always fell back on that name. It was frustrating. Annoying, really. But, Draco supposed, it was rather part of him now.

He always had the best of intentions when entering any business deal. Maybe someday he would use a better name, like Monsieur Paon. That sounded a bit better, he supposed. 

Regardless, Mister White had a purpose now, one that wasn’t as shrouded in darkness as it had previously been.

As it was, Mister White was a quiet informant and silent researcher that each member of the Time Turner team thought they had to themselves. Draco had been conducting a good deal of magical research in what little free time he had, and he was close to figuring out an entirely different method of time turner creation that would not only eliminate the old restrictions on six hours back per day but would also be able to expand to numerous other uses. The only problem was that when in the wrong hands, the results could very well be devastating.

Draco realized the enormous potential of the work, and he knew that it would most definitely require some protections to avoid completely erasing the current timeline.

He had discovered that part of the reason for the restriction was that the enchantment on the time turners could only handle the meshing of multiple copies of people together for a total of six hours. It was more than a protection against going too far back in time; it was a protection for the timeline against temporal anomalies. 

Draco had learned more than most people ever would about time and its applications-- invaluable knowledge, really. It truly was a shame that he hadn’t a greater official role at the Department of Mysteries. He could do so much with what he had learned. 

As it was, he was stuck on the question of timeline splitting and merging. What exactly was the balance between the creation of another flow of events versus the endless causal loop that the old time turners had maintained? How could he combine them into one time turner?

Was a time turner even the proper base in the first place?

The answer to that last question, Draco had decided, was no. He would assist the time turner project to completion, but beyond that, he would blackmail the members of the team into allowing access to more resources on time and the time turners themselves to create something far better.

Draco sighed and put down the tankard. He cast a tempus charm and knew that it was time for him to leave. He tossed a knut onto the counter as a tip. “Take care,” he said in his sleep-cracked voice. 

He stepped out onto the landing and apparated to the receiving room of the Ministry of Magic. 

Pops of apparation and disapparation surrounded him like a flock of starlings. The rush of floo flames came from the queues along one wall. Portkey numbers were being called and wand tests were being conducted. Elevators stood open waiting for occupants to deliver.

In short, it was business as usual. 

He walked over to an empty elevator and boarded it promptly, willing it to depart before more people piled in.

He had no such luck, and spent the remainder of the elevator ride being jostled by common folk.

Common. That’s what he was now. An office clerk working in clock maintenance. He scoffed mentally. He never used to have been common. It used to be unthinkable to look at a Malfoy with the word “common” on the mind. 

But now, here he was, in his precarious position between a growing family few knew about, a father’s overshadowing legacy, and a growing financial empire that would one day burst to the surface with such ferocity that he would never be considered common again.

At last the elevator reached the bottom floor. The Department of Mysteries was underground at the lowest level, even lower than the Wizengamot and the holding cells for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. 

Five doors in an eternally circular hallway. It was anyone’s guess where a new guest would arrive. Magical windows lined the inner pillar, releasing owls into the airspace. Whoever thought that was a good idea was a nincompoop. However, it was the only way personal mail arrived at the Department of Mysteries. 

That didn’t stop the whole notion of allowing owls in to be entirely foolish and ill conceived. 

A light brown owl fluttered towards Draco, extending its small talons towards his shoulder. 

“And who might you be from…?” he mused, taking a piece of parchment from the small owl’s lifted leg. He unrolled it and looked for any sign of who it could be from. 

Saint Mungo’s. What? Why would he have a letter from there…?

Draco’s eyes tore into the parchment. 

“Mr. Draco Malfoy,

“The results of the most recent health and wellness appointment from your wife, Mrs. Astoria Malfoy, require the swiftest of alerts. In her appointment with Doctor Brie Slate, it was discovered that the aforementioned Mrs. Astoria Malfoy nee Greengrass has undoubtedly inherited her family curse, being that following the birth of your son, Scorpius Lucius Malfoy, she has but roughly ten years to live. 

“The detection of this curse is thoroughly difficult, given that it is only detectable after the delivery of the first and only possible child. Not only that, but the nature of familial curses is most difficult to divine in standard scanning spells, and their power can spike and shift unpredictably throughout the life of those afflicted by them. Consider yourself lucky to have this forewarning.

“We regret to inform you that there is no current possible cure or even treatment of such an entrenched family curse as the Greengrass Curse. We remain faithfully researching the treatment for such things, but it is slow.

“The cost for this visit is 38 galleons. As with all our transactions, 70 percent of the profits go directly towards our research wing. 

“We look forward to working with you again. 

“Sincerely yours,

“Amalthea Rodricson, Secretary.”

Draco stared at the paper and gripped it tightly, ignoring the roaring sensation in his ears from the nauseating orbit of the eternal hallway. He swiped the owl off his arm with a swift movement of ire and ignored it as it flapped off in a flutter of feathers and disappointed hoots.

“Gallstones,” he spat. “They have no shame, do they?" Draco crumpled the parchment and shoved it in the pocket of his robe. "Tell me my wife’s going to die in a decade and prattle on about research that clearly hasn’t gone anywhere in thirty years? Merlin!” He stormed across the hallway.

Halting in front of the door for the Mystery of Time, Draco whirled his wand out and cast the appropriate key spell to enter. He took a moment to calm himself before stepping through into the same white room that he’d been passing through almost every week for the last eight years. 

He strode with a dangerous chill towards his overseer’s office and rapped on the frosted glass door. 

It opened far too slowly for Draco’s liking. 

“Mister Trotter, sir.” Draco balled his hands into fists by his sides.

“What is it, Mister Malfoy?” Trotter yawned.

“My wife, sir,” Draco bit out. “I must go home. I am not certain when I will return.”

“You’re part time. Do what you need to do." Trotter drawled. "I’ll have a temp replacement in here by tomorrow. Good day, Mister Malfoy. You’re dismissed.”

If Draco didn’t have such restraint ingrained into him, he likely would’ve gone slack jawed at his overseer’s dismissal of him. To be considered so easily replaceable was appalling.

“Thank you, sir,” he ground out with the best of his etiquette. With that, he spun on his heel and left the office for the receiving room once more. 

It was another equally long elevator ride up to the surface, but his irritation had shifted to the point where the wait felt excruciatingly prolonged. When at last he reached the ground floor level, he tore out of the elevator and apparated directly to Malfoy Manor. 

“Astoria?” he called into the entry hall. “Knopsy,” he barked into the silence. A small house elf popped to attention before him at once.

“What can Knopsy be doing for yous, Master Draco Malfoy sir?” the creature groveled, bowing gracelessly. 

“Where is Astoria?” Draco commanded, his gray eyes glaring emptily at the elaborate walls. His jaw tightened at the luxurious shell of a room.

“In the third sitting room, Master Draco Malfoy sir,” his large, watery eyes staring straight ahead in a rapt salute.

“Thank you Knopsy, that will be all.” Draco fought back an ache in his throat. His eyes burned as they both popped away to different places.

“Astoria, Darling.” Draco rushed over to his wife. She looked up at him, face contorted in a desperate sadness that thrust aching spears through his heart. She was like an angelic ghost, terribly white against the wine-colored chaise, yet ever beautiful.

“Draco,” Astoria whispered, on the verge of tears, her green eyes shimmering like the sea. 

“I got the owl from Saint Mungo’s,” Draco choked out.

“I can’t stand to see you like this." A hot tear spilled onto Astoria's pale cheek. “I knew you’d react like this.” She took a sobbing, gulping breath of air. 

Draco said nothing and embraced his wife gently. He wished he could absorb the curse from Astoria and make it disappear. He wished that his strength and love could flow through her and heal her somehow. “We’ll make the most of every day, darling, I swear it,” he whispered through her mouse-brown hair. 

Maybe, someday, he’d understand the puzzles he’d been working through enough to fix all this. He would rid his wife of the Greengrass family curse. He would do his best to throw himself into it, to pull all the research in all of time and space right to his fingertips.

He would fix everything that could ever go wrong, and unless he was mistaken, George Weasley would help him. 

The world would not be the sad place it was now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12.28.2020  
> I've had a busy year y'all. If you're hoping for an update soon... Well, I'm right there with you. I've chosen to work on a shorter thing that I hope to have finished and put up within the next couple weeks and then I'll be reworking Lost Time... The entire thing haha. Happy New Year!

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, I'm finally posting this. I wrote it back in NaNoWriMo. This work serves as a prequel for a greater story to come. I decided to tackle it... Well I can't say chronologically since the whole story I based on manipulation of time, can I? Anyway, I'm working in editing more and writing more. I'm excited to post it, and I plan to post every Saturday.


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